


First Step

by DiAmbrogio



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: City of Yharnam, F/M, Friendship, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiAmbrogio/pseuds/DiAmbrogio
Summary: The Hunter meets Gilbert and hopes to kindle a friendship. (Oneshot.)





	First Step

**Author's Note:**

> My first writing after a long slump. Feedback would be wonderful.

She is like a paradise bird, twitching her head left and right as the man below her grapples with the ladder. His left leg is broken, and he is lame, but he still tries yet. Snarling like a wildebeest, the blood addled male gums at the rungs with his toothless mouth.

Curiously, she says, “It would be easier if you dropped the torch.” 

He just hisses at her, like a cat. There is no comprehension in his eyes, no intelligence or spark. Blindness has made him dumb, the sickly blood has taken his mind. It saddens her to think that there can be no saving, no healing.

She must kill him, to gut and murder until she’s soaked to the bone with blood. That’s all she knows, all she woke up with. There’s a burn in her belly and whispering in her head and she must must must satisfy it.

The note gave her a goal, but it didn’t specify on how she was to achieve it. 

She stays in her position for quite a while, half hanging off the ladder. The clock tolls at two different intervals, marking the same hour yet again. Six o’clock comes twice and the hands only move backwards one minute before moving slowly forward to chime again. 

He just continues moaning and thrashing and gumming and slamming his head into the ladder. Over and over and over and over.

There is a cane equipped at her left hip and a pistol on the right, gifts from the small creatures in the workshop. She likes them, choosing swiftness and precision over the sheer brutality of the Saw Cleaver or the Hunter Axe. Soundlessly, she pulls the gun.

With a bang, her pursuer dies. Brain matter flies in every which direction. Sticky pink oozes down the wall, splashes to the ground, slings itself onto the windows and kisses the ever-shut doors. Energy flows from him to her, his strength transferring.

He smells of disease, pungent and rotten. Sickly blood, bad blood. Bad bad bad bad. Yet, she wants a sip.

Yharnam does not mourn for him, does not shed nary a tear. The other monsters still shriek their yowls and march for their long-poisoned crusade. The world moves forward without so much as blinking.

There is a man near the ledge where the ladder is. A healthy man, he smells of good blood. However, he coughs like he is not. There is a distinction between humans and monsters, Fair Isofeka taught her so. Monsters all smell like varying degrees of bad, of rotten flesh. Humans with sanity smell good, like a four-course meal. Flowers and something called sunshine.

It should be his scent that makes her want to eat, to devour and satisfy that rolling hunger. She should, by all accounts, want to rip the grate from the window so she can get a drop of his life essence. After all, don’t predators go for the prey that’s most appealing?

But her stomach flip flops at the notion, disgusted with her. Her head must be on backwards, she too must be mad with the night.

She inhales again, and an undertone rises to the surface, something poisonously sweet. Like he’s a fruit that is so good and juicy and ripe, but there’s too much of him. The nameless man is about to rot on his vine.

That makes her throat water. Makes her want to get closer and see who the male is.

She legs it over to the window, forgetting the lamp, and presses her hands to the bars.

“Hello? Are you all right in there?” Something inside of her rises its head in excitement at the prospect of another thinking person in all of this. Humanity lightly knocking?

“Yes.” The man coughs and rasps and she is oh so happy at the reply. “You must be a hunter. Not from around here, either, judging by the accent.”

That makes her birdlike again, pressing against the bars in rapt curiosity. “Is it that obvious?”

“It’s the scent,” He explains. “You smell like the moon, the way only hunters do.” He sounds like a teacher would, though the tone is somewhat degraded. It’s- what is the term for a cough weakened voice?

Rough, his voice is rough but also not. There’s a warm cadence to it.

She presses her nose to her own wrist, attempting to find the moon hiding under her skin. Is it the blood running through her that makes it so? The weapons in her hands? Or is it all caused by the little ones who drowned her?

He sighs and chuckles at her, making her raise her head and wrinkle her nose in what could be distaste. Curiosity takes her before anything can set in and she discards the face for one of inquiry, changing expressions easily.

“Would you mind telling me what sunshine means? It’s a very lovely scent on you.”

He sputters before falling into a fit of coughing and she wonders if she should give him one of the vials on her belt. The blood has been good to her, mended her half shredded back and legs when the first monster took her by surprise.


End file.
